Sunday, September 14, 2014

Izzy and Percy catapulted just like a slingshot, out the door, sniffing everything from raccoons, skunks and, yes, deer, to the fresh air.

They are shelter dogs. Izzy is four years old, small, a little rotund, bared her teeth for food, toys and varmints (although she never bites). She’s mixed-breed. Percy is a joy. Eager to please, follows me everywhere and he is dachshund. He is long-bodied, extremely short; a “badger dog”, the heavily-built weasel family. He’s two years old and he likes puppyhood. He digs frantically in the yard, just because.

Izzy

I had a stroke 15 years ago. I’m extremely careful about, well…everything. Four falls (Help…I can’t get up!) and I learned; slow and easy. The right arm and leg are tingly (well, dead I guess) and walk with a cane. The two pet doors, front and rear, are barricaded from forest creatures. I opened the roadblock and the dogs are free to roam, in the house and the yard. I live in the Laurel mountains in Pennsylvania.

I peeked outside the window, the dogs are fighting over a huge rodent, recently dead. He won. Percy bounded up the steps, and Izzy followed suit. In the house, Percy presented a moribund creature. The rat was enormous and he was proud. Izzy looked on, the hackles on her neck are showing and the ridged four paws were ready, pouncing.

“Izzy, stop!”, I warned. She stopped, disappointed.

The red shag rug in the front of woodstove, 4 x 6, had an assortment of toys; the hedgehog, the fuzzy fuchsia ball, the overstuffed bone and there, strewn about, a dead rat. Delighted and pleased, Percy is happy.

I took the WalMart bag and deposited the fur-bound creature. Bounty paper towels and one-gloved left hand, I dumped, secured it, and in to the garbage.